


Written on Seams

by ember_firedrake



Category: X Company (TV)
Genre: Closeted Character, Denial of Feelings, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>((Episode-specific spoilers for S01E08))</p><p>After their flight from Paris, Neil has a lot on his mind while Tom's wound is treated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written on Seams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlacesBetween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlacesBetween/gifts).



> Warning: mentions of blood/aftermath of gunshot wound

There was blood on Neil’s hands for the second time in as many days. This time it was real, not a hallucination brought on by his own guilt. This time it was not the enemy’s blood, but Tom’s.

Neil’s throat felt tight, the corners of his eyes stinging with tears that wouldn’t fall.

The drive from Paris, he’d felt every minute tick by knowing Tom’s life hung in the balance. He couldn’t look back into the truck though, had to trust that those they’d rescued would keep pressure on Tom’s wound until he reached the emergency safe house. The fuel gauge wavered dangerously low as they finally reached the designated place, and Neil had rushed to the back of the truck to help carry Tom into the house. His hand pressed firm to the makeshift bandages already soaking through, but Tom’s hiss of indrawn breath had given Neil some reassurance that they weren’t too late. Not yet.

One of their refugees had been a doctor before the German occupation had forced the man to abandon his practice, and he’d stepped in, urging Neil to let him work.

Neil sat in a nearby chair, half-lost in a haze as he watched Tom. His blood-covered hands, forgotten in his lap, curled palm-up in a gesture of supplication. He was drawn from his stupor only when he felt a touch on his shoulder—the doctor, holding a cloth out. Someone must have boiled water at some point; it was damp with warm water. Neil wiped his hands clean, afraid to ask.

“Your friend is fortunate,” the doctor said. “I was able to remove the bullet, and the internal damage could have been much worse. There’s still risk of infection, though.”

Neil nodded grimly, knowing how poorly the odds were stacked. He drew his chair closer to Tom’s bed. Less than twenty-four hours ago they’d been in the basement of a Parisian restaurant, composing poetry in the hopes that it might inspire the resistance, and in that time the axis of Neil’s world seemed to have shifted.

It had been Tom’s words, about _brave, raging, ready-to-die-for-you love,_ that had made Neil wonder how much Tom knew, or suspected. He’d never told anyone the details of getting jumped by that gang his second week in Shanghai—how his mate Danny had died trying to protect him. 

And here Tom was, lying on the bed with bullet wound because he’d told Neil, “Go, I’ll cover.” Neil wondered if Tom had recognized in his actions the echo of his earlier words. 

“Why’d you do it?” Neil asked. Tom only shifted, the morphine having sent him into a fitful sleep. There was an ache deep in Neil’s gut—Tom’s actions could just as easily have been for the sake of their refugees as for him, but Neil couldn’t help but feel, somehow, there was something more he should have done to prevent this. He couldn’t help but feel it ought to be him lying there. 

Neil had never breathed a word to anyone of the attraction he felt towards other men. He’d never told Danny of the regard he held for him, and Danny’s death had just reinforced Neil’s convictions in the matter. The way he felt—it was a weakness. At best, it would compromise him in the field, or it could lead to his arrest or even worse. He’d buried it, along with all other feeling, and thrown himself into his training. When the Blitz claimed his family, he’d only allowed himself anger.

Neil had known the first moment he was attracted to Tom. It was after that first mission, when they were all still reeling from the loss of Rene but high on the adrenaline that came with somehow pulling off a mission gone wrong. Shots had seemed a sensible choice, whiskey numbing their pain and allowing them, for the moment, to revel in victory. 

Neil couldn’t say if it had been the fault of his own actions, or Tom’s. The German uniform hat he’d placed on Tom’s head, or the way Tom had reached out to slap at his cheek. Maybe it was Tom’s accompanying grin, the flush on his face, but something in Neil shifted. He wanted...he _wanted_. There had been a moment, that evening, when he thought he’d felt Tom’s gaze lingering on him for longer than was proper—he’d attributed that to the alcohol. And even if he didn’t imagine it, nothing could come of it. He’d made that decision long ago.

But that was before Tom’s words had stripped him bare— _the kind of love that’s made stronger by staying hidden_ —as if how Neil felt wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but an asset that gave him strength.

There was no flush in Tom’s cheeks now, no grin touching his lips. His eyelashes fanned dark against the skin beneath his eyes. Neil lifted Tom’s hand, pressing his lips to the knuckles in a brief kiss. He stilled, looking for any sign that Tom had registered the gesture. He wasn’t sure which outcome he would prefer. 

The sound of movement drew Neil’s attention, and he tensed. Turning, he saw Aurora, looking more worn-out than he felt. Her eyes flickered to Tom’s hand in Neil’s, before meeting his face again. One look at her expression and Neil could tell something was gravely wrong. 

“What’s happened?” Neil asked.

“They got Alfred,” Aurora said, her voice clipped. “I was going to—I couldn’t—”

Neil nodded. She couldn’t take the shot. Weeks, months ago, he might have questioned that lapse in judgment. They were supposed to see Alfred as an asset first, one that could have dire ramifications if he fell into the wrong hands. But recent events had brought all of them closer. Neil wondered if he might have been able to do it, in her position. He’d only barely been able to bring himself to kill that collaborator, and he hadn’t liked that man at all. 

Aurora approached to rest a hand on Tom’s forehead, smoothing the hair away from his face. Neil considered letting go of Tom’s hand, but Aurora had made no remark about it yet. 

“What happened to Tom? Will he be okay?”

“He took a bullet as we were trying to get out of Paris. The French police were forcing Jewish citizens from their homes, and he— neither of us could stand by and let it happen.”

Neil could see the tension in Aurora’s face; he recalled her reaction when Drabek had told his story. She swallowed, composing her features into a calm expression that would only fool those who didn’t know her. “Where are the refugees?”

“Upstairs,” Neil said, dimly recalling the conversation he’d overheard while the doctor was working on Tom. “Some are in the cellar.”

“I’ll speak with them. Harry is outside by the shed, making contact with Sinclair about finding another way to get Drabek out of the country. We’ll see about finding something for these people as well. And once Tom is stable, we’ll find out where Alfred is being kept.”

There seemed to be a tight knot in Neil’s throat; he could only nod in response. Once Tom was stable. Assuming infection or other complications didn’t occur. His hand squeezed Tom’s, hoping to elicit some response.

Though lines of worry were still written on her face, Aurora’s expression softened, becoming thoughtful. Perceptive. She rested a hand on Neil’s shoulder.

“Neil,” she said, “Whatever’s changed—I’m here for you. We all are.”

Neil didn’t trust himself to reply; he feared he would reveal too much, whatever Aurora had guessed. He nodded again, flashing her a small smile that he hoped conveyed the gratitude he felt. Aurora patted his shoulder again before leaving the room.

Harry came in a few minutes later followed by Drabek. For being the youngest in their group, the way Harry held himself seemed to have aged him five years in one day. Later, Neil would find out from them what had happened. Harry’s face fell further upon seeing Tom’s state. Neil explained briefly what had happened.

“Does he need a blood transfusion?” Harry asked. It was a credit to how much they all supported one another that he was offering after having so recently recovered from a critical injury.

“Not at the moment,” Neil said. “The doctor...he had some supplies with him—plasma and sulfa and the like—since the Paris police let everyone pack a bag to keep up their ruse.”

Harry nodded, leaving the room a moment later to find somewhere for Drabek to rest. Neil was alone with Tom once more. Looking at the pained stillness of Tom’s face, hearing the soft cadence of his breathing, Neil chided himself for his selfishness. Here he was trying to parse his own feelings, when Tom wasn’t even remotely out of the woods yet. 

Tom’s breath hitched, his body going tense as he coughed. The movement sent a spasm of pain through his body, and Neil clenched his hand.

“Damn it, Tom, don’t die. D’you hear me?”

Another cough which turned into a groan. “I hadn’t...planned on it,” Tom said, his voice ragged. His blue-grey eyes blinked open, unfocused.

“Bloody funny way of showing it,” Neil said, though he relaxed his grip. If Tom was talking, that had to be a good sign.

“Did you ask the doctor if he found any gallstones?” Tom asked, the quip at his own expense turning into a hiss of pain.

Neil leaned forward on his chair, brows furrowed, until the moment passed. “Don’t—” he started, wanting to tell Tom not to joke about that. He swallowed. “I never should have said that.”

“Yeah, well...I shouldn't have said what I did either.”

Both of them had blundered, blind to the other’s point of view. Neil wished he could take it back. But then, there were a lot of things he wished had turned out differently.

Tom looked down at himself, wincing as he saw the heavy bandages. “How bad is it?”

“You’re lucky. You may yet live,” Neil said. He kept his tone light, but fear of uncertainty gripped him. Too many things could still go wrong.

The corner of Tom’s mouth curved upward. “You sound almost worried about me.”

Though it was delivered casually, Tom’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes, and there was a lilt to his tone that made it sound more like a question. The way Tom regarded him, it reminded Neil too much of that time he thought he’d felt Tom’s gaze on him. _Of course I’m worried_ , Neil wanted to say, but that would mean forcing himself to admit a worst-case scenario might come true. It would mean losing Tom, and admitting that possibility made something twist in the upper regions of his chest.

Instead, Neil said, “Why did you do it?”

Tom frowned, his dark brows knitting together. “It was because of what you said. Words...they’re empty without action. I can write down words in the hopes that they’ll sway people, but what kind of person am I if I can’t stand by them?” 

Neil could still see clearly in his mind the moment his gun had run out of bullets. The way everything had slowed as he realized he was moments from death. And then, miraculously, that moment passed. The bullet from Tom’s gun taking out the man who was about to shoot Neil. Tom, who didn’t like killing. He hadn’t hesitated. Neil owed Tom his life, as well as the courtesy of not hesitating when it came to this.

Tom’s hand still rested in Neil’s. He hadn’t withdrawn it, and Neil hadn’t let it go.

“Did you mean what you said? About love that’s made stronger by staying hidden?”

Tom’s eyes, when they met Neil’s, were steady. “When hidden for the right reasons, then yes. If...if it’s concealed out of denial, then it’s harder to draw strength from that. But secrets kept out of necessity can give us courage.”

Neil held Tom’s gaze. He had a feeling they both knew they were no longer talking about Tom risking his life. 

“What about you? Did you mean what you wrote for your verse of the poem?” Tom asked. “ _Find the pride, past the shame._ ”

Neil thought of all shame he’d kept buried. He had been lying to himself for far too long. Whatever might come of this, he would face it.

“I meant every word,” Neil said. 

Tom’s exhale sounded like one of relief, and his hand in Neil’s tightened. “I wasn’t sure...Until now I didn’t realize you felt the same way—”

“About...France?” Neil supplied, smiling so Tom would see he was teasing.

Tom could only glare for a moment before it slipped away, a soft huff of laughter replacing it. “Yes. _France_.” 

Another grimace flitted across Tom’s features; the morphine wearing off. When he opened his eyes again, Tom’s expression was sober. “Neil, listen. If I don’t—what I mean is, if anything happens, I want you to know—” 

“I already know,” Neil said, leaning closer. “You listen here, though. None of this ‘if anything happens’ nonsense. You’re going to survive this. You’re going to pull through, and you’re going to get better.”

Then, before fear could get the better of him, Neil closed the final distance between them, pressing his lips to Tom’s. It was gentle—Neil was all too aware of Tom’s wound. Tom let out a soft gasp before returning the kiss, his free hand reaching up to touch Neil’s jaw. Neil’s heart pounded in his chest, exhilaration making him lightheaded as their mouths opened against each other. He drew back with some reluctance only when he felt Tom react once more to the pain. 

“You probably need more morphine,” Neil said, smoothing the hair that had fallen into Tom’s face. “I’ll check with the doctor.” 

“Neil,” Tom’s voice called softly once Neil had reached the doorway.

Neil looked back. There was already an ache in his chest from that few feet of distance. “I won’t be but a minute. _This_ —” he gestured between them “—is not the end of this conversation, you hear?”

“Loud and clear,” Tom said.


End file.
